


and if your life was gold

by theundiagnosable



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: I have no excuse for this, M/M, fluffy future fic, meandering conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:59:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6569032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theundiagnosable/pseuds/theundiagnosable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are we boring?”<br/>Bitty says it out of nowhere, and Jack blinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and if your life was gold

“Are we boring?”

Bitty says it out of nowhere, and Jack blinks. He’s still half lost in his book, ands it takes a moment for his brain to switch from the revolutionary war to their porch swing. Bitty’s phone is abandoned beside him and he’s staring expectantly.

Jack closes his book slowly, brow ever-so-slightly furrowed. He waits, but Eric doesn’t elaborate. “I don’t know what the right answer is.”

The swing sways under their weight as Bitty turns to face Jack, clasping his hands in his lap and looking unusually serious. The gesture has preceded too many hour-long rants about icing sugar for Jack to be worried, and he ducks his head to hide a smile as he sets his book at his feet.

“Ms. Marshall came by the bakery-”

“Old Ms. Marshall or Vegan Ms. Marshall?”

“Old.” Bitty says. “She comes in and asks for a dozen double chocolate cookies for her book club, same as always; only it’s taking her a million years to count out her change because she still pays with nickels and dimes, bless her heart.”

He’s gesturing enthusiastically, like he always does when he’s telling a story. The light from the setting sun glints off of the ring on his left hand, flashing into Jack’s eyes and making him squint. He doesn’t look away.

“So she’s counting her change, and I’m standing there waiting and she says-” Here, Bitty adopts a high pitched, endearingly terrible impression of Ms. Marshall’s voice. “Now how’s that husband of yours doing, honey? You two are just _adorable_ , reminds me of my David and I back in the day.” He stops, like that’s the whole story.

Jack wonders if he missed something. He must wonder for too long, because Bitty gives a dramatic sigh.

“She said we’re adorable,” he moans. “Adorable, Jack.”

When Jack still looks blank, Bitty elaborates. “I’m almost thirty years old! People shouldn’t be calling me adorable!”

“You are, though.” It’s awkward, a blurt, but it’s true.

“Oh, hush,” Eric shushes, cheeks tinted with a faint blush that Jack notes with more than a little pride. He likes when Bitty blushes. That’s probably not saying much, because he likes most everything about Bitty.

Still.

Unaware of Jack’s internal monologue, Bitty is still talking. “Just- her saying that. We’re _that_ couple.”

Jack tilts his head, taps his fingers on Eric’s knee. “What d’you mean?”

“I _mean_ , we have an actual, literal white picket fence. We’re two-point-five kids and a vagina away from the American dream.”

Jack doesn’t point out that he’s Canadian, but it’s a close thing.

“I got married to the first guy I ever dated,” muses Bitty, then, “Oh lord, we’re college sweethearts. We go to block parties. I make pies for the new neighbours.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “You make pies for everyone.”

 “Jack Laurent Zimmerman, do not start with me.” He jabs at Jack’s chest then gives a small sigh, smoothing down the front of his shirt without really thinking about the gesture. ”We _garden_ , Jack. And mow the lawn every weekend.”

“And watch the news.” Jack adds with a smile, leaning closer and nudging Bitty’s nose with his. “And drink red wine with dinner.”

Their lips are centimetres apart, now, but Bitty is undeterred. “And have biweekly date nights. Lord, we’re so perfect I’m going to puke.”

Jack winces. “Kind of kills the mood when you talk about puke, y’know.”

“Oh, there’s a mood now, is there?” Bitty asks, low and playful.

“Maybe,” Jack says.

“Maybe?” Bitty echoes, tracing the buttons on Jack’s shirt. “Betcha I can help you decide...”

He can feel Eric’s breath on his lips, his skin hot under the sun, warm and _his_ and tantalizingly close and-

Jack pulls back.

Bitty makes a small, annoyed sound, like he can’t quite help himself. Jack nearly leans back in, just like that, but there’s a question nagging at the back of his mind.  

“Do _you_ think we’re boring?”

Bitty looks stricken. “Oh, sweetheart-” Jack can see the apology on his lips, and hastens to clarify.

“No, I’m not sad, just...” He trails off. “I know that I’m not. Exciting.”

Bitty half-laughs, but he still looks flustered. “Says the NHL player who took me to a pastry class in Paris for our last anniversary.”

“And was at an away game the one before that,” Jack counters, scuffing his toes along the porch.

“Jack, you ridiculous-” Apparently overwhelmed, Eric lifts a hand to tilt Jack’s face toward himself, looking him right in the eyes, stern and serious. “You’re everything I could ever want, y’know that? And more. And better.” He rubs his thumb in circles at Jack’s temple, and Jack leans into his touch.

“You as well, Bits. Always.” Jack turns and presses a kiss into the palm of Bitty’s hand; then, on a whim, to his wrist; then to his knuckles; then, one by one, to each of his fingertips until he’s laughing and burying his face in the crook of Jack’s neck.

“’sides,” he says, muffled by Jack’s shirt, “I’d pick boring with you over just about anything with anyone else.”

Jack thinks, stupidly, of the Grinch; the ridiculous animated version with the heart growing three sizes. He thinks he gets it.

“Except for when you make me watch those history documentaries,” Eric adds, like an afterthought. “Good lord, now _that’s_ boring.”

Jack grins, leaning his head on Bitty’s. “Isn’t.”

“Is.”

“Isn’t.”

Bitty giggles, shoving against Jack half-heartedly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re adorable,” Jack retorts, very seriously, and Bitty leans back for just long enough to level him with a capital-L Look. It only serves to prove Jack’s point, so there. Ha.

He nestles back into Jack’s side, resting his head on his chest with a small, contented sigh. Jack trails his fingers up and down Bitty’s arm.

After a while, another thought occurs to him. “We can paint the fence, if you like.”

Bitty looks out at the white picket fence, dots in the distance. “I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully, “I sort of like it.”

Jack doesn’t say anything about the two-point-five kids thing. Someday, he figures.

And they stay like that, pressed together, side by side. There’s no noise but the creak of the swing, the occasional chirping of birds.

 It’s good. They’re good.


End file.
